


Garden Party

by LyricDreamweaver



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Not, Crowley is a Refined Lady, F/F, Fluff without Plot, Victorian era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricDreamweaver/pseuds/LyricDreamweaver
Summary: Sometimes, Crowley can be rather dense so Aziraphale has to be creative in getting attention.





	Garden Party

**Author's Note:**

> They're lesbians, Harold.

Bees buzzed happily among the lilies and roses, the plants waging a delicate and fragrant war in the garden. The blueberries toward the edge of the garden offered the first blossoms which were only perused by butterflies. On the trunk of the apple tree, a snail crawled, pausing every so often when a bee came near, though the hive was a way off, outside the boundaries of the garden.

At the table—wrought-iron woven into a diamond-pattern and covered with a blue tablecloth—two ladies sat, a picturesque little tea party. Aziraphale, deciding on brunette ringlets only tamed when she went to town and a chubbier figure this century, barely sipped her tea. She leaned in, bust rested against the edge of the table and talking fast and occasionally smoothing her hands on the lap of her trousers in her excited little way. Crowley, this time round, was enjoying the corsets (and what they did to her bust) and petticoats (and what they did to her hips), and sipped her tea slowly, eyes trained on the newspaper in front of her.

"And, you wouldn't believe the things they said when I walked in," Aziraphale continued, finger tracing the edge of her own teacup. "They said it wasn't proper for a lady to read!"

"Terrible shame, that."

"More tea, dear?" Aziraphale asked, one hand already on the handle of the teapot.

Crowley blinked—or Aziraphale knew the fallen angel enough that Crowley probably blinked behind those darkened spectacles—and simply held out her teacup, which was rimmed with gold and painted with lavender blossoms. Aziraphale added sugar, smiling a bit as she stirred Crowley's tea for her. Crowley, sipping her tea again, stared at the newspaper.

"So I bought every first edition I could carry. And a few I'll have to collect tomorrow." 

"Sounds lovely."

"I'm pregnant."

Crowley jerked upright at that, cheeks turning red and spectacles lowering from her yellow eyes. "Who’s the father? What have you done? How will w handle a child of all things, Aziraphale? Aziraphale, stop laughing!"

"I'm only joking, dear," Aziraphale said, smiling at her lover’s bombardment of questions and tucking a strand of Crowley's vibrant red hair behind her ear. "I had to make sure you were paying attention."

"I'll show you I've been paying attention," Crowley grumbled, leaning in to kiss Aziraphale.


End file.
